


The Tale that River Told

by Nelsynoo



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Mostly Fluff, One Shot Collection, Variety of pairings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-23 08:11:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6110456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nelsynoo/pseuds/Nelsynoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of one-shots, usually based on prompts. All just under 1,000 words and featuring a variety of pairings - mainly Inquisitor x Cullen but also Inquisitor x Solas and a few Hawke x Fenris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt was 'hand holding' and this story features my Anwen Trevelyan and Cullen.

The trees look different.

They used to be carefully manicured; wayward branches hacked down by fastidious gardeners to keep them in neat cubes. It was a fashion brought to Ostwick from Orlais, a little precious perhaps for the Free Marches but Lady Trevelyan had always been a bit fussy in her style. Anwen had liked the trees as a child, they reminded her of the brightly-coloured wooden blocks that she’d hoarded at the back of her wardrobe long after she’d grown too old to play with them.

Now the branches twist haphazardly against a featureless, grey sky; thick, black boughs holding aloft a goldening canopy. They make the castle seem smaller, somehow, these tall, wild chestnuts looming towards the parapets.

Or perhaps Anwen is just taller now.

She had been on the cusp of adulthood when she’d left, a frightened teenager disappearing into the night carrying a bundle of hastily chosen possessions and cloaked in the shame of her newly manifested magic. Now, over a decade later, the prodigal Trevelyan returns, this time cloaked in the green mantle of the Inquisition and accompanied with an entourage that would put royalty to shame.

It had been Josephine’s idea of course, her idea that Anwen should reconnect with her estranged family (after all such connections could potentially prove beneficial for the Inquisition), and her idea that Anwen should return home with the full pomp and ceremony befitting someone of her position.

Standing at the foot of the path leading to the castle, flanked on each side by these alien trees, Anwen feels oddly cold. Her body is stiff, feet planted immovably to the cobbled road, and as she peers up at the familiar, grey turrets and spires, she finds herself clenching and unfurling her fists in an attempt to force some warmth into her numb fingers.

Suddenly the air shifts beside her and she doesn’t need to turn her head to know that it’s Cullen. He is, as always, a steady presence at her side, a constant stalwart, and she finds it an immense relief that he makes no attempt to speak to her, to cheer or encourage. Anwen has always found silence more comforting than empty platitudes.

After a few heartbeats of stillness, she feels a tentative brush of warmth against her fingertips. Slowly, Cullen’s fingers entwine with her own, capturing her palm against his, and for the first time since Castle Trevelyan came into view on the horizon, sensation begins to creep back into her extremities.

She smiles, and it’s a fragile, brittle thing, but it’s the first smile she’s managed in a long while and it’s good to feel that familiar tug in her cheeks.

“They were going to send me away,” she says at last, so quiet that she’s not even sure Cullen heard her until she sees his small nod at the edge of her vision. “They were going to send me to the Circle. And I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life trapped within stone walls.”

He gives her hand a small squeeze, a fleeting gesture of reassurance.

“What are you supposed to say to the people who wanted to lock you away for the rest of your life?” she asks, and she hates that she sounds so self-pitying, hates the tremulous quiver that threatens to render her softly-spoken words all but inaudible.

“Why don’t you start with… _hello_ ,” he says, just the barest whisper of humour colouring his words, “and you can figure out the rest from there.”

The laugh that bubbles from her throat comes as a surprise to her and when she turns to finally look at Cullen, she’s delighted to see his own face crumpled with laughter. Relief washes over her as the final vestiges of anxiety loosen their grip on her limbs, and she curls her body into his, tucking herself into the familiar space beneath his chin. She can feel his gentle chuckling through the bobbing of his chest and for a time they just stand, bodies pressed together, as their laughter mingles in the crisp, Autumnal air.

“So this must be pretty nerve-wracking for you as well,” she chimes with a sing-song voice that’s partially muffled against his travelling leathers.

“What do you mean?”

“Well you’re _meeting my parents_ , Cullen. That’s a pretty big deal.”

He suddenly goes still, his laughter quelled, and she can feel his limbs stiffen against her. “I never thought of it like that.”

She leans back far enough so that she can see his face, and he grimaces with such child-like petulance that she can’t help it when her lips spread into a wicked grin. “I mean I must be _pretty serious_ about you.”

His smile quickly returns, whatever fear he felt at the prospect of meeting Anwen’s family promptly banished. “Good, that’s good – because I’m pretty serious about you too.”

She has to stretch to her tip-toes to press a gentle kiss to his lips, a sweet, tender kiss proffered as thanks. _Thank you for being here_. _Thank you for making me brave_.

When she steps away from him, turning to face her old home once more, Anwen feels fortified by a renewed determination. Because though she was alone when she left the Castle all those years ago, she is not alone anymore, and there is something startlingly glorious in such a simple revelation. And as she walks under the dappled canopy of golden chestnuts, Cullen’s hand firmly ensconced in her own, Anwen can concede that perhaps the trees are better as they are now, tall and wild and free.


	2. Love and Loathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas ponders his relationship with the Inquisitor and whether he should tell her the truth about his past and his intentions. Inspired by [this poem on Jahaliel's Tumblr](http://jahaliel.tumblr.com/post/139166232975/love-and-loathing).
> 
> I know I normally pair my Eleri Lavellan with Cullen but sometimes I like to write about her and Solas - I think both relationships have a lot of interesting story-telling potential and I just can't decide which pair I prefer

Eleri’s hands never stop moving. They wave and shake when she talks, swing languorously when she walks. She speaks a silent language with every gesture, a fist curled in anger or a gentle pat for comfort, a squeeze of the shoulder for consolation.

Solas is fascinated by her hands.

Fascinated by the firm pinch of her fingertips around a needle when she stitches together a flesh wound, pulling the skin into a neat line with quick, sure movements. Fascinated by the curl of her knuckle when she notches an arrow, pulling her bow string back until the feathered fletching brushes against her sunburnt cheek. He’s fascinated by her slender fingers curling over soft palms when she dances, languid movements that coil and curve through the dense, warm air of the Herald’s Rest. 

When she bursts through the door of the rotunda she has that all too familiar smile on her face, broad and crooked, a touch wicked, and though he pretends to be engrossed in his book, he can’t help it when his own smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

He pointedly ignores her as she strides across the room toward him and it’s not until she’s perched on the edge of his desk, her hips knocking a precariously stacked pile of books, that he raises his head to peer at her with a sharply arched brow. Her eyes are bright, her cheeks flush and he can tell from the way her bottom lip quivers that she has news she desperately wishes to impart.

But instead she waits, her words locked tight behind her grinning lips, and watches his face for some indication that he’s ready for her to speak. Solas likes his solitude, likes to lose himself between the pages of his books, between the strokes of his paintbrush, and though Eleri is usually impatient, all swiftness and barely contained energy, she never interrupts him without first seeking his permission. He feels something tighten in his chest as she calmly waits for him, unexpectedly touched by such a simple consideration.

“Anything I can do for you?” he asks after a considerable pause, taking perverse enjoyment in watching her squirm. But there’s more enjoyment to be had in watching her speak, her eyes alert and her whole body thrumming with exuberance. He’s barely listening to what she’s saying, some story about a stash of medical encyclopedias found in a long-forgotten loft, but he can’t help but watch her closely as she rambles, his gaze drawn to her eyes, her lips, and of course her hands.

Her left hand cuts the air in wild gesticulations, punctuating her story with sharp gestures, while her right, her right hand plays idly with a piece of silver plucked from his desk, twisting the coin between her fingers, making it dance across her knuckles in an impressive display of dexterity. Suddenly she flicks the coin with her thumb and there are flashes of white as the coin spins, catching a shaft of sunlight that falls from the library above, until it drops into her waiting palm. He finds the movement oddly mesmerising and he can’t seem to pull his eyes away as she flips the coin again and again.

Guilt slowly weaves its way into the pit of his stomach as she talks, her excitement palpable as words tumble fast and thick into the space between them. She talks with such ease, such sincerity, and it pains him that he cannot reciprocate in kind. He has come to treasure these moments, when it’s just the two of them, talking and laughing, arguing perhaps about differing interpretations of Dalish folk stories, or whether Orlesian pastry is just _too sweet_. And as much as Eleri likes to talk, she is also an excellent listener and she listens to his stories with rapt attention, tucking them away like a child hoarding her favourite sweets. But every story he tells her is merely a half-truth, and it is troubling to think that she treasures these deceits.

She is so open, open with her thoughts and honest with her feelings. She has never felt the need for deception and he wonders whether she could ever forgive him for his. He never thought it would be this difficult to mislead her, never thought that he would find someone in this harsh and limited world whose good opinion would matter so much to him.

And she matters; she matters a great deal.

He makes a deal with himself; if the next coin-toss comes up heads, he’ll tell her everything. He’ll tell her of Fen’harel and the Enavuris, of betrayal and necessity. He will unburden himself of the truth, and in doing so expose himself to her censure. The part of him that remembers what it is to be young, to be hopeful, thinks that perhaps she might understand, might not react as unfavourably as he expects. She is smart, after all, and practical, and she understands that sometimes the right course of action isn’t always the kindest.

If it’s tails, well, he has been lying to her for so long that the falsehoods drip from his tongue with a practiced ease that sometimes unnerves him; maintaining the falsehood will surely make little difference now.

Her next flip goes a little high, the coin arching in the space between them, and she lets out a surprised ‘oh’ as the coin slips between her fingers and thuds onto the wooden tabletop. 

He looks down and he cannot hold back the soft chuckle that escapes from between smiling lips. He’d thought he would let fate decide his future, let the luck of the toss determine the course of their relationship. He isn’t surprised when he sees the outcome; he has always found fate a cruel mistress.

The coin stands upright upon his desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	3. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was thinking of Eleri and Cullen and how the Dalish-human thing affects their relationship - the little misunderstandings and confusions that arise when two people are raised in very different cultural backgrounds.

Cullen slides from his saddle with a little less grace than he’d hoped and his feet stumble a little as they hit the ground. His legs, leaden from days of near-constant travel, tingle unpleasantly as they adjust to his new upright position and he cringes inwardly as the waves of numbness roll from his ankles to his thighs.

He gives a nod of thanks as he hands his reins to the waiting stable-boy then turns to find Eleri smiling at him from where she leans against the door to the stables. Her posture is relaxed, eyes bright, and if the long journey from Halamshiral has exhausted her as it has him, she does not show it.

His gait is a little awkward as he strides across the stable to Eleri’s side, his left knee deciding that it would rather not cooperate at this time, and he can tell from the way Eleri’s lips quirk that she is amused by his ungainly bearing. He presses a kiss to her cheek when he’s close enough, smiles against her vallaslin when he hears her contended sigh.

“It’s nice to be back, isn’t it?” he muses idly as they walk from the stable, “especially after travelling for so long.” She hums in absent-minded agreement, although Cullen suspects she’s not really listening. Her eyes are scanning the yard, taking note of the faces bartering at the stalls, the pilgrims making their way toward the Chantry gardens. He wonders whether it’s a Dalish trait, or just Eleri’s natural curiosity, but she seems to be constantly observing her surroundings, gaze flitting between faces or scanning the horizon to see what’s ahead.

“Do you know what occurred to me while riding back from Halamshiral?” he asks as they start climbing the stone staircase to the battlements, “I’ve begun to think of Skyhold as _home_.” 

She turns to look at him as they walk, one brow arched sharply in question. “What do you mean?”

“I mean this place – these towers, these stone walls – they feel… safe… and comfortable. Skyhold feels like… home.”

She shakes her head at him, face pinched in what he first assumes to be confusion but on closer inspection, could in fact be pity. “You humans have such an odd fascination with buildings. With stone and mortar. You think that because something is permanent, it is safe, _better_.”

When she comes to an unexpected stop, he turns to face her, steps close to make sure he can hear her over the rumble of the wind as it whips over the battlements. “Skyhold isn’t home,” she continues, raising her hand to rest on his chest, palm pressed flush over his rapidly beating heart, “ _this_ is home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	4. When it Rains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was 'reading a book together' and this is a modern AU with Hawke and Fenris.
> 
> When I first saw this prompt, I immediately thought of Hawke and Fenris snuggled up in front of a fire, nestled among a pile of furs while they read together. But then I thought this was too obvious and instead I made them cold and wet and miserable.

Fenris has always liked the rain. He’s always found it oddly soothing: the gentle pitter-patter of fat droplets as they tap against a window pane; the rushing rivulets of water that wind through the streets after a heavy downfall, cleaning away the grime and making the streets seem like new again.

But as he stands in the shadow of a towering mountainscape, the rain lashing upon his face with stinging ferocity, water trickling down his hiking boots to puddle maliciously around his toes, Fenris quickly comes to the conclusion that the rain _fucking sucks_.

“We’re lost,” he calls to Hawke, although it’s not clear whether she can even hear him, the howling wind seemingly devouring all other sounds.

Even though Hawke stands barely more than a metre away, Fenris is struggling to make out her face through the driving downpour, to read her expression and determine just how dire their situation is. He can just about see her bright smile, wide and toothy, and it’s a poor attempt at exuding confidence, undermined completely by the tight pinch of her brows and the crinkle of her nose. 

“No we’re not! I know exactly where we are!” she chimes back with unnerving enthusiasm as she lifts her sodden guidebook closer to her face. “We’re up the Monro hill!” 

“Hawke,” Fenris snaps back, patience finally worn too thin for civility, “there are _282_ Monro hills in Scotland.”

“Really?” Hawke asks with genuine surprise, peering with narrowed eyes at the guidebook in her hands as if it has personally betrayed her. “Shit – that’s a lot.”

“Great… we _are_ lost…” Fenris mutters as he stomps toward her, his gait awkward and clumsy as the mud clings eagerly to the soles of his boots. He tries to snatch away the guidebook when he’s close enough but Hawke’s grip is strong (of course) and instead the two end up bumping shoulders as they both try to bend over the guide.

“So the book says to take the footpath behind the pub and then follow it as it curves to the left…” Hawke traces the words on the page with her index finger as she reads, “and, I mean, we definitely did that! So I don’t really see how we’ve managed to get lost.”

“The book also says to cross the river,” interrupts Fenris, “and we definitely _didn’t_ do that. I don’t even remember _seeing_ a river.”

Hawke hums thoughtfully as she flicks briskly through the guidebook, the waterlogged paper sagging and wrinkling as she turns each page. “You know…” Hawke begins slowly, then lets out a little sigh before continuing, “there is a slight possibility that there are perhaps _multiple_ pubs in Scotland called the Rose and Crown.” 

“We were at the _wrong pub_?!” Fenris cries, disbelief giving his voice a shrill edge.

“Well I wouldn’t say ‘wrong’ pub, Fenris, that shepherd’s pie was bloody fantastic. But it wasn’t the pub we _meant_ to visit… I don’t think… which means that this is not the mountain we _meant_ to climb.” Hawke gives a nonchalant little shrug, a peculiarly understated gesture for someone lost half-way up a mountain in torrential rain and gale force winds. “Looking on the bright side, we’ve had some exercise, some lovely fresh air. The whole experience has been rather – bracing!”

 _Bracing? This experience is not bracing, it is fucking miserable_. Fenris’s feet are throbbing, his fingers numb, and his damp clothes chafe sharply against skin puckered with goose-flesh.

Fenris is suddenly taken with the overwhelming urge to throw something.

That something turns out to be the guidebook and Hawke only manages a half-hearted, soggy yelp as the book is snatched from her hands and sent arching to its demise. Fenris can’t see where the book lands, the unrelenting deluge having cloaked the landscape in an indistinct wash of grey, nor can he hear it thump to the ground and he is disappointed at how _unsatisfied_ he feels. 

Warm hands suddenly frame his face and when he looks down, he sees Hawke standing in front of him, gentle, patient eyes holding his gaze in what he supposes is an attempt at comfort. He has no idea how her face is managing to hold such cheer but the sight of her crooked, gawky smile makes something in the pit of his stomach flip. And when she leans forward and presses her lips against his own, it’s almost enough to make him forget about the rain and the wind, the throbbing ache in his calves and the disconcerting tingle in his toes.

She tastes different from usual, earthier and a little salty, but she’s _warm_ and she’s _Hawke_ , and even though they’re hopelessly lost, the familiar feel of her lips and the sturdy press of her body against his chest is enough to make him feel grounded, secure.

When she breaks the kiss, she doesn’t step back but instead curls herself into his chest, head bowed to tuck under his chin. Fenris’s arms rise instinctually to encircle her and he is surprised at how quickly her warmth seeps through his skin to settle in his bones.

“Ok – new plan,” she mumbles against his supposedly waterproof jacket, “let’s retrace our steps down the mountain and back to the Rose and Crown. I think I saw apple pie on their specials board.” A chuckle escapes him then, a little thin and a little quiet but a genuine laugh none-the-less. “And maybe this is enough mountaineering for one holiday,” she continues, “let’s just stick to pubs from now on.”

Fenris thinks this is a most sensible suggestion, perhaps the most sensible thing Hawke has said all holiday, and he hums in approval against the crown of her head. Abruptly, she disentangles herself from his arms and pushes away from him, skipping backward with a ringing laugh.

“Now hurry the fuck up, I’m fucking cold!” she beckons before turning and tearing down the slope, feet stumbling precariously over the mud and loose rubble of the mountainside, “and you owe me a new guidebook!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	5. Blue Silk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've had a pretty stressful few days so I thought I would indulge in some Solavellan fluff to lift my spirits.
> 
> Eleri Lavellan gets all dolled up for the Halamshiral ball but Solas can tell that something isn't right.

She’s enrobed in swathes of blue silk as she sweeps into the Halamshiral ballroom. Her dress is ornate, regal; a far cry, certainly, from the simple Dalish attire she favours. An elaborately embellished bodice pinches in her waist, bedecked with lines of golden beads that branch and fork like the veins on a leaf, before flaring over a long, full skirt. Fabric pools and sways around her legs as she descends the grand staircase, shimmering with tinges of gold in the sputtering candlelight. Someone has, miraculously, managed to tame her hair into an elegant knot atop her head, and Solas is suddenly struck with just how enticing he finds the long, bare column of her neck. 

She looks beautiful. 

She looks… wrong.

Her gait is confident and steady as she makes her turn around the ballroom but there’s a stiffness, a tension in her movements that betrays her unease. Usually Eleri’s body thrums with emotions, feelings, every gesture bold and expressive. But here, under the scrutiny of the Orlesian court, she looks small and contained, every step cautious and calculated. 

He stalks along the edges of the ballroom, watching The Game unfold from the liminal spaces between shadow and light, his elven ears rendering him, thankfully, all but invisible to most of the partygoers. He finds his resentment growing as he watches the polished, pampered fools, smiling and sneering while they scheme and flatter. Eleri is fire and purpose, strength and passion, and he can’t bare the thought of her being contained, lessened, by these petty, shallow creatures.

\--

Hours later, once Florianne has been escorted from the ballroom and Celene has offered the Inquisition her support, he notices Eleri slip away from the revelries, seeking solace on a balcony and the crisp, cool air of the evening. He follows, of course (and will he be able to stop following her, he wonders, when the time comes?), and finds her leaning wearily against the stone balustrade, back bowed and face flushed. Her dress is in disarray, her skirt coming to a frayed end just below her knees, and her bared skin is bruised and speckled in blood. A mass of blonde curls cascades across her shoulders, jostling at peculiar angles and sticking to her sweaty temples, making her appear more a wild animal than the exalted Herald of Andraste. 

Her shoulders are slumped, curled in towards her chest as if she’s being folded in on herself, body seemingly buckling under the weight of her responsibilities. But when he’s close enough he can see that she is smiling, broad and toothy and pleased. Though her face is red and blotchy from the evening’s exertions, her eyes – always so expressive, so open – her eyes are shining with happiness and relief.

She looks radiant. 

“I thought I would find you out here,” he says, as if he has merely happened upon her and not actively sought out her company. “Thoughts?”

She sighs and lifts one shoulder in a small shrug, her contented smile turning rueful as she considers Solas’s question. She’s pleased, of course, that Florianne’s deception was revealed, that the Empress’s life was saved, but this is only a small victory and she almost feels guilty for taking pleasure in her success when she knows it is only a fleeting thing.

“I’m… happy,” she says cautiously, afraid, perhaps, that such an admission will cause its diminishment. “We saved the Empress, ended a civil war – not too bad for a Dalish savage and her band of thugs and miscreants.”

“Is that what we are?” he asks, surprising himself when a soft chuckle escapes his lips. 

“I’m afraid so,” she replies with a bright laugh of her own. “And those are some of the nicer things people have been saying about us. I won’t tell you the meaner ones. I wouldn’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

“My sensibilities thank you for your consideration,” he says with mock sincerity, voice teasing and lips curling into a smirk. And when she responds with yet another one of her bright laughs, he tries to ignore how satisfied it makes him feel.

Suddenly her smile falters and a thoughtful shadow falls across her features. “To be completely honest, I thought tonight would be a disaster,” she says. “Court intrigue is not really my strong suit. I think I’m too blunt to play The Game effectively.”

“Your honesty is one of your strengths. It is a trait that more people should possess.” He places a tentative hand on her shoulder, gives a gentle squeeze in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. “Tonight was a great success. You should be proud of what you have achieved.”

“I have a feeling this is only a temporary victory.”

“You’re probably right. There is certainly more trouble ahead. But that should not ruin this moment. For now, just focus on what’s in front of you.”

A cheer from the ballroom suddenly pierces the quiet coolness of the balcony. He’d almost forgotten about the ball, about the drunken revellers, their games and their intrigues. Out on the balcony, cloaked in the midnight blue, time had almost seemed to stand still. But now Solas is painfully aware that time is fleeting, that the evening is almost spent.

“Come – before the band stops playing. Dance with me?” he asks, stepping back from the balustrade before bending into a bow and stretching out his hand in invitation.

She smiles, that same radiant smile she wore when he first approached her, and takes his hand without hesitation. “I do love to dance.”

“I know,” he responds, placing his free hand in the small of her back to pull her against him. Her body falls in step with his, her feet light and quick as he leads her through the dance. The stiffness she has held in her limbs all evening is gone, the tension lifted, and she finally seems like herself again, all movement and feeling and barely contained energy. 

She had been beautiful, that regal creature who’d swept through the ball dripping in gold and draped in blue silk, but this woman, this dishevelled, tattered, mess of a woman, this woman is as radiant as the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	6. Cruel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Found this little one-shot floating around my laptop - it's really old but I still kind of like it!
> 
> Anwen Trevelyan has had a bad day but Cullen is there to cheer her up. This is mainly just some unabashed fluff (although there's some graphic violence at the beginning).

Fate is cruel. 

Fate knows all your weaknesses. Fate knows all your fears. Fate knows when you’re feeling down, when your limbs are weary and your heart is tired - and chooses that exact moment to send a unit of red Templars your way.

Anwen stumbles, her boots losing traction on the ice-slicked rock, and smacks into the ground with a thud strong enough to leave her bones rattling. She glances over her shoulder, sees the Templar quickly approaching with his stiff, inhuman gait, and for some infuriating reason, she can’t seem to lift herself to her feet, her legs instead thrashing clumsily in the snow.

It’s so cold, so _fucking_ cold.

Her companions are preoccupied, she can hear the sounds of battle from a short distance away, and Anwen knows that if she doesn’t stand up _now_ , she’ll be dead. With an undignified grunt she pushes with all her might against the ground, uses her staff to leverage her body into an upright position, and when she turns to face her attacker head-on, it takes all her strength not to cower pitifully at the sight of his immense, looming form.

Too close, _too close_.

She pulls at her magic, a desperate tug that brings it burning forward, too hot, too fast. The magic thrums, pleasantly familiar as it pulses through her limbs to dance in the palm of her hands. Sparks of gold and hot white pop at her fingertips – lightening has always come to her easiest – and she takes a deep breath to steady herself before pushing her magic from her body to her staff and then out toward the Templar.

He screams when the lightening bolt hits him, a harsh, broken thing, almost impossibly loud. His face is turning black, the lightening burning the skin until it’s thick and blistered, and smoke – dark and foul-smelling – squeezes through the gaps between his armour plates.

His death is not the first she has witnessed, of course, but it’s the first she’s seen this close.

Too close, _too close_.

There’s relief when his body slumps to the ground, relief to have survived, yes, but also relief that he’s stopped screaming, stopped thrashing, just… stopped.

“You alright?” she hears Varric’s voice from beside her and when she turns away from the still smoldering corpse, she’s a little unnerved at the open concern resting on his face.

How long has he been standing there? Has he been talking? 

“Fuck this shit,” she mutters with a resigned shake of the head, giving Varric’s shoulder a squeeze in what she hopes is a reassuring gesture as she walks passed him to rejoin their companions where they are waiting patiently on a nearby bluff.

He chuckles in reply and its warmth is a welcome thing in the cold wastes of the Emprise du Lion. “I couldn’t agree more,” he says, falling into step beside her, “now are we done here?”

“Yes… we’re done,” she says, words a little heavy, a little sad, and while her feet drag a little as she walks, her pace quickens at the prospect of finally, _finally_ leaving the miserable cold, “let’s go home.”

Yes, fate is cruel.

It was fate that brought those first sparks of magic to her hands shortly after her 13th birthday. Fate that drove her from village-to-village as an apostate and fate that saw her finally dragged to the Tower when she’d let herself get complacent (let herself get comfortable, get _happy_ ). Fate brought her to Haven, gave her the power to close the breach, fate made her Inquisitor.

_Fate can go fuck itself_. 

* * *

 

She pushes the door to her room with a little more force than strictly necessary, stomping up the stairs like a petulant child sent to bed without dessert. She throws her pack to the ground, followed shortly by her cloak, and it’s only after she’s thrown herself gracelessly onto her bed that she notices that something is… _different_.

There are flower petals strewn across her bed, bright and fragrant, and when she lifts her head from the coverlet she can see great bunches of flowers dotted throughout her room. Yellow roses, her favourite, smile at her cheerily from vases sitting atop every surface.

And what’s that _smell_? 

There’s a hint of honey and spices drifting through the air, warm and comforting and _home_. Intrigued, Anwen fumbles from the bed (her limbs still not quite ready to cooperate after the long journey to Skyhold) and eases open the door to the small water closet adjoining her room. 

She wasn’t expecting to see Cullen, certainly wasn’t expecting to see him bent over the bathtub, liberally sprinkling yet more yellow petals over the surface of the water.

“You… made me a bath?” she asks, incredulous, and she can’t help but smile when he jumps a little at her sudden appearance.

“Ugh… yes?” he replies cautiously as he turns to her, a faint blush creeping from his neck to tinge his cheeks. He’s a little worried he’s crossed some sort of line; Anwen has always been fond of her privacy. “I heard it was… uh… pretty miserable… in the Emprise.”

She puffs out a chuckle, amused by his understatement. “It fucking sucked.”

His laughter mirrors her own. “Yes… Varric’s sentiment was similar. I thought you could do with something to cheer you up… a surprise.”

“You snuck up here while I was doing my rounds?”

He nods, still a bit bashful, but there’s something about the crooked curve of his smile that makes her spine tingle.

“Well aren’t you devious?”

There’s a wicked glint in his eyes, a slight quirk to his brow, as he reaches down to a basket beside her bath, pulling out a single yellow rose and offering it to her with a theatrical flourish of his hands.

Now it’s Anwen’s turn to look bashful – she never has been good at dealing with such open displays of tenderness – and as she runs her fingertips along the petals with reverent gentleness, she is embarrassed to feel her eyes prickling with tears.

“You are just so… fucking… wonderful,” she says softly, raising her gaze from the flower in her hands to his face and the painfully earnest affection in his eyes. “I don’t know how I found you.”

He laughs softly as he brings his hands up to frame her face, bends forward so his forehead rests against hers. “I don’t know… it must have been fate.” 

“What was that?” she asks suddenly, a little taken aback by his choice of words.

“This,” he says as he presses a kiss between her brows, “this must have been fate.”

She hums in contentment, lets the rose fall to the ground so that she can twist her hands into his shirt and pull him down for a searing kiss.

Maybe fate isn’t so cruel after all.


	7. Infinite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another random one-shot I found floating around my laptop - surprised I hadn't already uploaded it. 
> 
> My Trevelyan Inquisitor, Anwen, is feeling a bit nostalgic and a bit blue - Cullen is there to cheer her up.

When Cullen finds her, he can’t help but feel that something is… _wrong_.

Anwen likes to keep herself occupied; every moment in Skyhold is spent attending meetings with visiting nobles, honing her magic or planning for their next journey. And when she _does_ allow herself rest, she hides away in her private study with her head buried in a book.

So when he finds her in Skyhold’s gardens, lying in the grass and just… _staring_ at the sky, he can’t help but feel a little unnerved.

“What are you doing?” he asks, trying to mask the concern in his voice while standing over her prone form.

“Looking at the sky,” she replies matter-of-factly, her gaze never once leaving the endless blackness above them. Her face is calm, oddly blank, and he wonders whether there really is a little sadness veiling her eyes or whether it’s just the shadows cast by the tree branches in the moonlight.

“Can I join you?” he ventures at last, hoping that his intrusion is not an unwelcome one.

Finally her face turns to peer up at him, and she looks at him as if she’s only just realised he was there.

“Of course,” she says, curling her lips into a small smile as she gives the ground beside her a pat in invitation.

Once he’s settled on the soft grass, he joins her in her skyward scrutiny, although he’s not entirely sure what he’s supposed to be looking at.

“It’s a nice night,” he begins, and he feels a little foolish for saying something so banal – weren’t they beyond idle small-talk? “It’s very… um… peaceful.”

She chuckles beside him and it’s a welcome sound, alleviating some of the awkwardness that seems to cloak them, an awkwardness that hasn’t surrounded them since their very first stilted attempts at courtship several months ago.

“Yes, it _is_ a nice night. Very… crisp.”

“So… what exactly are you doing?” he asks after another lengthy pause. In the quiet of the gardens, it seems an oddly invasive question.

“I’m counting the stars.”

“Well then you’re going to be here a long while,” he drawls dryly, feeling oddly proud of himself when she laughs again. It’s only a small thing, quiet and short, but there’s enough warmth there to ease his concerns.

He doesn’t see her move, too busy staring at the sky, but he feels it when she rolls across the grass to press herself against his side, hand sliding across his chest to rest on his shirt, fingers idly tracing a figure-eight between the buttons.

“When I was little, my brother would say: ‘I’ll let you have the last strawberry tart if you can count every star in the sky’ or ‘I’ll let you play with my favourite toy if you can count every star in the sky’.” She pauses for a moment, always a little uncomfortable when talking about her family. “He wasn’t very good at sharing.”

Suddenly she sits up, leaning over his chest so that her long, dark hair falls over him, obscuring his view of anything other than her face. She’s smiling now, the sadness brought on by her uncharacteristic nostalgia seemingly banished.

“I wonder how many there are,” she asks, eyes suddenly alight with curiosity, “if you had all the time in existence – if you could travel the skies counting all the stars – I wonder how many there are.”

“It’s impossible,” he says, causing her to arch a brow in question.

“How do you know it’s impossible?”

“There are an infinite number of stars.”

“How can you be so sure of that?”

“I can’t – I’m… not sure.”

Her eyes narrow, studying his face carefully as if she can understand his full meaning if she can just observe his expression closely enough. He shifts a little under her scrutiny, wishing that she would return her attention to the skies and stop staring at him so searchingly.

“Everything has an end,” she says, and she always manages to sound _so certain_ of herself. “Things start; things end. We’re born; we die. Nothing is infin-.”

“You’re wrong,” he interrupts, and he takes a perverse pleasure in the way she pinches her brows, pulls the corners of her mouth into a small frown. She’s not used to people disagreeing with her.

Her hand still rests on his chest, tracing idle patterns against the rough fabric of his shirt, and he takes her hand within his own to move it over his heart. He hopes she can feel the steady beating; hopes she can understand his full meaning.

“ _This_ is infinite,” he says earnestly, staring into her eyes with the same intensity with which she’d been staring at the sky.

She ducks her head, no longer able to maintain eye contact, fidgeting uncomfortably as she always does when Cullen says something unflinchingly sentimental. 

“You hopeless fool,” she mutters with a shake of her head, though her words lack any real recrimination.

He’s about to defend himself when she ducks down to capture his lips in a kiss, warmth spreading across his chest as she stretches her body against him. The stars are immediately forgotten as her tongue dips into his mouth, her hands sliding upwards until they frame his face.

Cullen knows they can’t stay like this forever, that it would cause quite a stir should the Inquisitor and the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces be found entangled in the gardens come morning. But as he wraps his arms around her, returns her kiss with a fervour equal to her own, he wonders whether, through sheer force of will, he can make this moment last for infinity.


	8. Silver-Tongued Assassin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Zevran’s usual suave banter fails to impress the warden, he’s forced to resort to the most embarrassing of chat-up lines.

The warden, as it turns out, is a tricky one.

He’s tried all his usual guiles – the smouldering stares, the wolfish grins, the coyly arched brows – and yet none of them seem to move her.

Zevran is a man of many talents, light on his feet, graceful as a dancer, wielding his daggers with such style and ease, it is almost like they’re an extension of his body. But greater than all these talents, Zevran prides himself on his seduction techniques. He can melt even the coldest of hearts – expertly deploying a combination of suave words and sheer physicality to stoke mere fondness into violent affection.

Which is why it’s a terrible shame, really, that neither his impressive physique nor his most charming repartee seems to have had any effect on his enchanting travelling companion. And he has devised some _truly magnificent_ lines so far. He’d started with, “I think you’re royally tough to kill. And utterly gorgeous,” shortly after they’d met. Then, later, “I fancy things that are dangerous and exciting. Would you be offended if I said I fancied you?”

He’d been particularly proud of that one.

But all she’d done in response was regard him with a level stare, eyebrows held taut and low, lips curled into a small frown.

It was not exactly the rapturous reception he’d been expecting for some of his finest work.

Still – they’d developed an easy friendship over the months. And as one who had never really had friends before, he is happy to treasure whatever relationship she has deemed him worthy of – though he’s not sure he will ever stop finding her… compelling.

It doesn’t help when she’s pressed against his side, huddling close to share whatever warmth the two of them can muster in defiance of the persistent chill of the Frostbacks. One of her hands has been gripping to the sleeve of his coat for some time (ever since she nearly fell on her arse at a particularly treacherous patch of ice a few miles back) and while he knows he should limit his thoughts to more _gentlemanly_ concerns, he can’t help but imagine what it would feel like were she to press that hand against his tattooed skin, stroking along his jaw until her fingers could card through his hair. 

“It’s too fucking cold,” she mutters beside him, the words clipped and stuttering as she pushes them through chattering teeth and stiff, blue-tinged lips. She cups her hands around her mouth and blows – a poor attempt to warm both fingers and face.

“It’s so cold, I can’t feel my lips,” she moans.

Zevran indulges in a small, private smirk. “Want me to feel them for you?”

She comes to an abrupt halt.

Wait – what?!

Shit, shit, _shit_ – did he really say that out loud?

He can feel the shame slipping across his face like a shadow, settling into the lines of his frown. He creases his eyes tightly closed to save him the horror of seeing the judgement that must surely be gracing Ruadhán’s face.

Had Zevran Arainai – the silver-tongued assassin – really just uttered one of the cheesiest chat-up lines known to Thedas?

But then he hears something he’s never heard before – Ruadhán _giggles_. Sure he’s heard her laughter plenty of times, rich and hearty, punctuated with inelegant, nasally snorts. But _this_ – this light trill of girlish laughter – this is _entirely_ new.

When he finally dares to open his eyes, she’s looking at him strangely, smiling crookedly, a blush spreading prettily across her cheeks (though it’s hard to tell the difference between blush and windburn, given the miserable, biting winds of the Frostbacks).

Huh.

_Well_.

He hadn’t expected such a terrible line to elicit such an encouraging reaction.

It’s a surprise, of course, although a pleasant one. After months of drawing on all of his talents, all of his seductive techniques, apparently all he needed to break through Ruadhán’s hardy, practical exterior was a line too trite for even the trashiest of Orlesian romance novels.

He suspects it is probably a one-off. Perhaps she’s delirious from cold, or exhausted from their punishing pace as they descend the mountain?

A few days pass before he tries again – _an experiment_ , he thinks – to see whether his momentary triumph on the mountain-side was indeed only a fleeting success.

She’s easy enough to find in camp, kneeling on the trampled grass outside her tent as she rummages for something in her pack. He smirks wolfishly as he stalks over, kneels beside her before leaning close to whisper in her ear. “Looking for a stamina draught? Because you’ve been running through my mind all day long.”

She jerks back with surprise, unused to his closeness, then bursts into a tumble of giggles, that same strange sound from the Frostbacks. She cocks her head to the side to look at him, her usually sharp eyes looking soft – dare he say, _fond_ – and when her laughter subsides, he takes great pleasure in watching the corners of her lips curl into a flirtatious smile.

“Really, Zevran? Is that the best you can do?” Her eyebrows quirk as she speaks; it seems an awful lot like a challenge.

“I don’t know… how about – do you have a map? Because I keep getting lost in your eyes.”

She laughs again, light and quick, almost birdlike.

Encouraged, he leans closer, lets his voice drop to a rich purr. “You look nice tonight but you’d look even better in my bedroll.”

He’s pleased to note that she doesn’t lean back this time, instead her body seems to arch toward him. Her laugh is heartier now, though still with its bright, musical trill. He’s becoming increasingly fond of that sound – he hopes he can always find the words to coax it out of her (no matter how mortifying those words are).

She raises a hand to let her fingers trail idly along the collar of his leather doublet. “I don’t know…” she muses with a playfully arched brow. “I think your lines could do with a little work.”

He hums approvingly. “Well then I suppose I should practice more.”

Suddenly the bravado falls from his eyes, the purr from his voice, “that is… if you don’t mind?”

She pauses, lips pursed as she considers his question, then shakes her head gently. “No – I don’t mind. After all, it’s always important to practice one’s skills. Otherwise, how else will one improve?”

“How else indeed,” he says, raising his hand to rest over hers, pinning it against his chest. “You’ll find I’m a quick study.”

“Oh, of that I have no doubt.”  

He realises now that he can feel his own pounding heartbeat through their enjoined hands, thinks that _surely_ she must feel it too. It’s quicker than he would have expected, accompanied by an unusual pattering of something in the pit of his stomach. She’s been having this effect on him a lot recently and it’s… unsettling.

He thought she was just beautiful – beautiful and deadly, and blistering with defiance and strength. But then Zevran has met many beautiful women in his life, bedded most of them, and none of them made his heart pound quite like Ruadhán does. He thought that maybe he would bed Ruadhán too – that that would cure his heart of its senseless pounding – but as they’d grown closer, he’d come to the startling realisation that he may be developing feelings that cannot be allayed by a simple tumble in his tent.

“Um Zevran,” she says, looking pointedly at where her hand rests beneath his, “may I have my hand back?”

“Your hand looks heavy,” he says with an exaggerated leer, “let me hold it for you.”

She laughs again, pulling her hand free and punching it playfully against his shoulder. It smarts more than she probably intended, years of practice with her daggers granting her an impressive degree of strength. But she’s grinning at him – lopsided and warm – and that sight alone is worth the pain, not to mention the burning mortification from uttering such hackneyed chat-up lines.

* * *

Zevran mutters something vulgar under his breath as his fingers fumble with the buttons of his tunic.

He’s normally a pretty cheerful person in the morning, rising from his bedroll the moment those first golden fingers of light start cresting over the horizon (after all, there’s no time for dawdling in the Crows). But for some reason his body is not cooperating this morning. His head feels groggy, his fingers stiff – and even his magnificent silken locks fall lank and flat around his face.

He’s just about to give up – to rip every damn button off his wretched tunic – when another pair of hands joins his. Pale, slender fingers dance down the front of his tunic, popping each button effortlessly into place. When he looks up, Ruadhán is smiling at him, clearly amused by his sartorial difficulties this morning and looking more than a little smug.

“Having some trouble this morning, Zev?” she muses as she sweeps her hands down his chest, smoothing out the creases across his tunic.

“I didn’t sleep too well last night,” he admits, raising one shoulder in a languid shrug.

“Well I hope you’re still able to fight, should the need arise. You know I only keep you around for your skills as an assassin.”

“And here I thought you kept me around for my debonair charm and my devastating good looks.”

She hums thoughtfully as her fingers slide under his collar, making sure the fabric rests neatly against his neck. “They’re just an added bonus.”

He smiles – and she smiles back – and there’s something about their easy rapport that puts him at ease, that banishes the fog from his mind and the lead from his limbs until all he feels is lightness.

She steps back, lets her eyes rake over him slowly. “That tunic looks good on you.”

He nods. “Thank you.”

“It would look even better on the floor of my tent.”

_Well.  
_

He’s too stunned to respond, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape.

But Ruadhán – Ruadhán _grins_ , broad and toothy and crooked. There’s a glint of amusement in her eyes, and a proud tilt to her chin, and she looks _so fucking pleased with herself_ that Zevran can’t help but be immediately enchanted.

And _that_.

_That_ is the moment.

That is the moment that Zevran Arainai realises he is hopefully in love with the warden.

And all it took was one _really bad_ chat-up line.

**Author's Note:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


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